


The Protection Racket

by Saucery



Series: Napkin Stories [5]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Action & Romance, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Assassination Attempt(s), Assassins & Hitmen, BAMFs, Bad Puns, Bisexual Character, Bisexuality, Canon-Typical Violence, Cock Tease, Companionable Snark, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Fights, First Love, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Happy Ending, Heartbreak, Humor, Internal Conflict, Jealousy, Kissing, Kleptomania, Loneliness, M/M, Mentors, Misunderstandings, Moderately Plotty, Mutually Unrequited, Opposites Attract, Or Is It?, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Promiscuity, Protectiveness, Queer Youth, Repression, Seduction, Sexual Content, Sexual Frustration, Sparring, Team Feels, Teasing, Teen Crush, Unrequited Love, Wealth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 03:45:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5612710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Gaby is the German Chancellor’s daughter studying as an international student at a posh American school, Illya is her loyal bodyguard, and Napoleon is Gaby’s sassy bi BFF with a thing for tall, scary Russians.</p><p>Or, a bratty seventeen-year-old Napoleon seduces an Illya ten years his senior with the sort of devotion most reserve for religions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

 

“You seem to have misplaced your large, adorable murder puppy,” Napoleon said.

“Illya?” Gaby sighed. “Good riddance. He’s the worst cock-block ever.”

“The best cock-block, you mean.”

“He’s supposed to be my bodyguard, not some kind of glorified guardian of my chastity. I swear, if he death-glares at my boyfriend one more time—”

“I thought that preppy sweater dude was just a random fling.”

“Not that dude,” Gaby said. “The other dude.”

“That horrible racer guy? Ew.”

“Have you _seen_ his garage?”

“I’d be more interested in his package,” Napoleon said, “if he was my type, which he’s not.”

“Speaking of your type...” Gaby trailed off, as a shadow loomed over them both.

“Peril,” Napoleon greeted, turning around with a grin. “What kept you? Gaby here almost got laid.”

“With you?” Illya growled, and Gaby rolled her eyes.

“God, you’re so thick,” she said, as Napoleon studied Illya’s trunk-like torso appreciatively.

“You got that right,” he drawled. “Thick and long.” Napoleon’s gaze dropped to Illya’s crotch. “All over, I assume.”

“You’re such a size queen,” Gaby said.

“At least I go for animate objects.”

“A penis isn’t an animate object.”

“Neither is a Maserati.”

“A Maserati is totally animate.”

“Yeah? So is a penis when it twitches. Or leaks. Or—”

“Stop,” said Illya, strangled.

“—shrinks, probably,” Gaby concluded, dryly.

“Make many dicks shrink lately, have you?” Napoleon smirked.

“Please.” Illya was unusually plaintive. “Stop.”

“You need to not get traumatized by me having a sexuality,” Gaby said. “I’m seventeen. I can do whatever—and whoever—I want.”

“You must not place yourself in danger,” said Illya, firmly, endeavoring to regain his authority. Which was hilarious, because nobody had authority over Gaby. Not even her dad, and her dad was the Chancellor of Germany.

“The greatest danger I’m in is being sexually frustrated for the rest of my life,” Gaby complained. “C’mon, Nap. We have French, next. And Illya, please don’t lurk in a corner of the classroom like a creepy shadow.”

“ _Au contraire_ ,” Napoleon said to Illya, earnestly.  “You’re the world’s most handsome, most intimidating shadow. I like it.”

“What you do or do not like has nothing to do with me,” Illya replied. “Do not approach Gaby carnally.”

Napoleon chuckled. “Oh, you. It isn’t Gaby I’m into.”

“I’m aware,” Illya said stiffly. “However, you have not proven to be selective in your sexual partners.”

“You keep track of my sexual partners? I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. I keep track of any interloper that comes within Gaby’s sphere of association, incidentally or permanently.”

“The only men _coming_ within my sphere of association are the men Napoleon sleeps with.” Gaby huffed. “Because you won’t let me sleep with anyone.”

“Just FYI,” Napoleon said to Illya, “I’d adore it if you sabotaged my love life. It’d make me feel special.”

“As I said, what you do or do not like has nothing to do with me.” Illya ghosted his knuckles over the gun strapped beneath his open leather jacket. While he likely meant it to be threatening, all he succeeded in doing was making Napoleon flush with desire. “Ms. Teller’s safety is my sole concern.”

Gaby harrumphed. “Including safe sex?”

“Ms. Teller,” said Illya, half-chastising and half-appalled, and he was—

He was as cute as he was deadly. Damn it. It was doing Napoleon’s head in.

Possibly his heart, too.

* * *

 

Gaby’s dad had taken a detour from the G8 summit in Georgia to drop by his daughter’s school in New York, and as a result, there were entire squads of security personnel lining the halls of Ralton Academy, and the principal had called Gaby in to his office, where she would be meeting her father.

Napoleon tagged along, because… Why not? It was yet another excuse to be around Illya, and when Gaby was swept into the principal’s Baroque-themed welcoming lounge, replete with Ming vases and fresh flowers from the school’s landscaped gardens, Illya had to hang back in the office proper with Napoleon, because the German Chancellor required bodyguard-free (and Napoleon-free) time with his daughter. Besides, Illya had already secured the perimeter of the office, by peeking behind the curtains, running bug sweeps, and scowling the room into submission.

Napoleon was more than ready to be scowled into submission, but Illya, as always, ignored him.

The principal disappeared soon after Gaby did, presumably to oversee the personnel outside, leaving Illya to pace around the lounge like a caged tiger.

“You’re a William Blake poem brought to life,” Napoleon said, and Illya grunted, sitting on the principal’s abandoned armchair, combat boots braced on the rich carpet. His left knee bounced restlessly, and he kept squinting at the paneled mahogany door behind which Gaby was enjoying a rare reunion with her beloved dad.

“Don’t insult me by comparing me to poetry.”

“It was a compliment.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“I’m trying to court you, you blockhead,” Napoleon said fondly.

“Court me? You are a mere boy,” Illya said, not moving as Napoleon straddled him on the padded armchair.

“And you’re a man. A very manly man. I’m not a boy, though. Not anymore. I’m legal.”

“Nothing you do is legal.”

“I resent that. My kleptomania is constructively channeled and generally law-abiding.”

“Generally.”

“Well, it’d be very _specifically_ law-abiding. If I stole you.”

“You cannot steal a person.”

“No?” Napoleon pouted. “What about a kiss?”

“Napo—”

But Illya never finished his sentence, because Napoleon was kissing him—or trying to, anyway. It was like kissing a rock. A sexy but unresponsive rock. Napoleon may as well have been a kitten mauling a giant, uninterested scratching post.

Except that the post’s apparent disinterest faltered when Napoleon bit Illya’s lower lip, sinfully lush as it was, hinting at a sensuality at odds with Illya’s soldier-like persona.

Okay, so maybe the sensuality was an illusion. A trick of the mind. A mirage in the midst of a searing desert of lust.

But that hitch in Illya’s breath? Was definitely not an illusion. Nor was the sudden, vise-like grip of Illya’s hands at his waist, shoving him off.

“You’re under direct orders not to use force against me,” Napoleon panted, because, god, despite being the most unproductive kiss of his life, it was somehow also the most electrifying. “Gaby told you not to hurt any of her friends.”

Illya’s eyes were narrow and—fuck—angry. Deliciously angry. “I did not hurt you,” he said, voice low and hoarse.

Napoleon shivered. “But you wish you could, don’t you?” he said. “What if I said you could? What if I _let_ you? What if I let you tear these fancy woolen trousers right off me and spank me until I cry?”

Ilya stared at him. His eyes were darker than ever. Fathomless.

Napoleon couldn’t tell if what darkened them was hunger or violence, or both.

And he loved it.

“You could teach me a lesson,” he coaxed, stepping close again. “With those big, hard hands of yours. You could bruise my pretty little ass red and purple. Make me wince whenever I sit down to dinner with the brainless socialites I have to pretend to be interested in.”

“Like I have to pretend to be tolerant of you.”

“Ouch. That stings. Almost as bad as that spanking you promised me.”

“I promised you nothing.”

“Your eyes sure did.”

Just then, the bell rang, and Napoleon, who was two discredits away from being suspended, couldn’t afford to miss the next period. Not when attending school had become so _very_ rewarding.

Thanks to Illya, Napoleon had become more committed to furthering his education than he’d been in all his seventeen years. Admittedly, he’d prefer it if that education was conducted between the sheets, but still.

“See you later, Peril.” Napoleon strolled to the door, letting his hips sway invitingly. “Remember, keeping promises is the Russian way.”

So saying, Napoleon left, but not before he blew the glowering Illya a kiss.

 

* * *

 

Vicky Vinciguerra, the alarming yet beautiful junior prom queen who had won the National Science Fair with a bomb detection device (the testing of which was conducted using—it was rumored—actual bombs on the scenic, orchard-filled Vinciguerra estate, leaving it forever scorched), was disappointed when Napoleon ended their unofficial agreement comprising of booty calls and one-night stands.

Vicky was not a girl to disappoint. Napoleon feared being poisoned, for a while, until it occurred to him that Vicky’s method of murder would probably be to blow him up. He also stopped sleeping with Jake the choirboy and Tien the genderfluid stamp enthusiast, not because he didn’t believe in the many health benefits of casual sex (he did), but because, ever since that kiss with Illya, he’d found himself dissatisfied with the kisses he normally enjoyed with his lovers.

There was just… something missing. From those kisses. Vicky’s kisses were honeyed and technically masterful, like sumptuous symphonies conducted by a maestro. Tien’s kisses were delightfully chaotic, and Jake’s kisses were sweetly guileless, but Napoleon had acquired a compulsive habit of daydreaming about barely-restrained fury and electric blue eyes even whilst getting it on with other folks. Which was insulting to them, and unfulfilling for him. So unfulfilling that every attempt to scratch his itch made it immeasurably worse.

Gaby was astonished by Napoleon’s involuntary chastity, but Illya was unimpressed. Even when Napoleon took to touching Illya glancingly, whenever he could, sliding fingertips under the cuff of Illya’s sleeve, along Illya’s pulse, or rising on tiptoe to brush his mouth against Illya’s tightening jaw.

This was all done in passing—covert caresses and furtive grazes—and each incident ratcheted up the heat beneath Napoleon’s skin, until he was gasping as if _he_ was the one being teased.

It was unbearable. It was wonderful. It was a fever burning through Napoleon’s composure, reducing it to ash. He’d always viewed himself as accomplished in the arts of pleasure, but he forgot about art whenever he was in contact with Illya, and found himself squirming like the teenager he was, escaping to the nearest bathroom stall to jack off frantically, being rough with himself, the way he imagined Illya would be.

Illya didn’t shove Napoleon away again, but neither did he withdraw. Napoleon knew it shouldn’t give him hope, especially since Illya’s inaction was just the result of being under Gaby’s command not to beat Napoleon into a pulp… but he was encouraged, anyway.

He was encouraged because, just once, Napoleon had a minor victory—a victory that hinted Illya was on the verge of cracking. After the millionth time Napoleon flicked the tip of his tongue against the soft lobe of Illya’s ear, Illya snapped. He clenched his fists in Napoleon’s uniform and hurled Napoleon against the nearest wall. Napoleon was positive, in that instant, that he would wind up being fucked to _shreds_ —but it never happened. Illya backed off, breathing heavily, two spots of furious color high on his cheeks.

“If you’re gonna fuck me, fuck me,” Napoleon taunted him, despite being thoroughly winded, but Illya grimaced and resumed following Gaby into her Latin class. It had the air of a tactical retreat. Illya’s limbs were jerky, lacking their natural, predatory grace.

Ha. Napoleon was getting somewhere. His hope was justified.

But then, an incident occurred that reminded Napoleon of how futile his hope was.

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

Botany was boring as hell, except when the potheads contributed advice on how to grow weed, so Napoleon was almost thankful when the class was interrupted by the tak-tak-tak of automatic gunfire from outside.

Until the alarm system failed to go off.

Which made _Napoleon’s_ alarm system go off.

Because, while this wasn’t the first time criminals had tried to attack the school, none had gotten past security. The academy-wide alarm not ringing meant that someone _had_ gotten past security, and into the control room that powered the laser grids and cameras.

And Napoleon didn’t fail to notice that the gate from which the gunshots had sounded was the gate facing the eastern wing, where Gaby was currently having History.

Gaby, the most valuable target at the school.

Which was why, as the other students ducked under the tables, Napoleon picked up his pot of flowering dogwood, smashed it on the floor, and grabbed the two largest shards of ceramic. They’d make excellent makeshift knives. His gardening gloves saved him from their vicious, fanged edges. Napoleon was possessed by the uncommon urge to sink those edges into the flesh of whoever threatened his best friend. Arguably, his only friend.

Mrs. Gascovy, the Botany instructor clad in a muddy green apron, was babbling at him to calm down, but he _was_ calm. She also babbled at him to stay put, but he barged out of the humid indoor glasshouse that was the Botany classroom. He knew he didn’t need to worry as long as Illya was there to protect Gaby, but… shit, what if Illya got shot, too?

Napoleon’s murderous impulses doubled. No, quadrupled.

Huh. And he’d thought thievery was the most illegal activity he was capable of. Time to add murder to the list.

It took Napoleon ten nightmarish minutes to race across the manicured lawns of the campus and up the stairs of the Humanities Building. There were bodies lying in crimson pools at the foot of the staircase—uniformed bodies. They were the guards, the outer phalanx of the German-employed contingent that sealed off any building Gaby was in. Napoleon barely glanced at them, paying no heed to the heave of nausea that rocked his stomach. He refused to think of Illya’s body, prone in the same fashion. Fuck, no.

The next lot of bodies—the inner phalanx—was at the feet of the statue of Cicero. There was a bang from the hallway beyond the statue, which was the hallway leading to History, and there was a subsequent flood of screaming students emptying out onto the staircase and slipping, tripping and sobbing their way down the steps and to safety.

Napoleon hauled a wheezing guy in by the collar. “Where’s Gaby?” he shouted, striving to be heard above the ruckus.

“Getting herself killed, hopefully,” the coward said, quaking in his boots. “And leaving the rest of us to live.”

Napoleon elbowed him in the nose. It crunched satisfyingly.

Ignoring the resulting “Ow!” was easy. Napoleon had bigger fish to fry. He struggled against the flood of students leaving the classroom, who were soon joined by students from other classrooms.

Napoleon rounded the door, which wasn’t a door so much as it was a flimsy flap of shattered wood and glass, and saw Gaby being dragged out of the back door by another guard, while three masked men with guns bore down on Illya.

Illya only had two arms. And two eyes.

Before even giving himself a millisecond to be afraid, Napoleon launched himself at the third gunman with a bloodcurdling howl—not so much because he’d been marathoning _Vikings_ on Netflix and wanted to impersonate Rollo in the midst of a berserker rage, but because he figured it might distract the motherfucker.

It did.

So did the twin shards of elegant pottery aimed at said motherfucker’s eyeballs.

Sadly, the man didn’t stay distracted long enough to, like, not try to stab him in return.

“Napoleon!” Gaby screeched, sounding for all the world like a wrathful Valkyrie. To the guard taking her from the class and presumably to the panic room of the Humanities Building, she yelled: “[ _Scheißkerl!_](http://dictionary.reverso.net/german-english/Schei%C3%9Fkerl) Let me go, you imbecile!”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Napoleon yelled back, before the mercenary grazed Napoleon’s stomach with what felt like a line of fire, but was probably just a blade. What, had he emptied all his clips into the guards outside? Mother _fucker_.

Napoleon stumbled backwards over a pair of corpses—not guards, this time, but more masked gunmen—and somehow managed to elude being cracked across the skull by the hilt of a wickedly curved dagger. His clumsiness had actually saved him. Woo-hoo. Hidden talents.

Apparently, that moment of distraction was all Illya had needed to pulverize the remaining mercs, and as Napoleon was getting the daylights punched out of his abdomen and chest, Illya whirled upon Napoleon’s attacker and… slapped him in the neck.

Slapped. In the. What?

That’s what it looked like, anyway, like an open-handed version of the Vulcan nerve-pinch, and the man went down faster than a sack of potatoes. Unconscious potatoes.

“Why didn’t you just kill him?” Napoleon said, heart all but pounding out of his ribcage. Not that he had much of a ribcage left, thanks to all that punching. Motherfucker, motherfucker, motherfucker.

“Information,” Illya said. “He can tell us who hired him.”

“I don’t think he’ll volunteer that information.”

Illya’s brows lowered. “No,” he snarled, his upper lip curling. “He won’t.”

Napoleon… was turned on. Inappropriately turned on. He’d blame it on the adrenaline if it weren’t for the towering pillar of Russian wrath before him. “Uh,” he said. “All right. Did that guard take Gaby to the panic room?”

Illya checked his wristwatch—a keepsake from his father that Napoleon had once pick-pocketed, only to reinstate it when Illya went nuts searching for it. Napoleon had yearned for a keepsake of his own, but even he had morals. Didn’t he?

The watch now had added features, including a GPS tracker pinpointing Gaby’s exact location and summarizing her vital signs, thanks to the delicate bracelet-slash-bug that Gaby was obliged to wear at school. It was CIA-issued tech. The kind of tech that had Napoleon almost understanding Gaby’s near-erotic fascination with machines.

“Gaby?” Illya addressed the watch, and the garbled stream of invective that answered was clearly Gaby in the midst of a berserker rage of her own. There were German swear-words in there that Napoleon frankly couldn’t wait to find out the meanings of. There must be farm animals involved. Well-hung farm animals. Doing stuff to people’s moms.

“Too much motherfucking,” Napoleon said, collapsing against a nearby desk in relief.

Upon hearing Gaby’s voice, Illya’s Russian wrath became a lot less Russian, and a lot less wrathful. He switched off the dial on the watch, and reached for a strip of pearl-studded black fabric that Napoleon recognized as Gaby’s discarded hairband.

“You okay?” Napoleon asked, and felt like an idiot. Of course Illya would be okay. He was a former KGB agent and the modern equivalent of Achilles. Gaby may be his heel, yeah, but he was still Achilles.

“[Слава Богу](https://translate.google.com.au/?ie=UTF-8&hl=en&client=tw-ob#auto/ru/thank%20god),” Illya mumbled, and slumped beside Napoleon. He was solid and reassuring, his leg pressed against Napoleon’s. “Thanks,” Illya said, eventually.

Napoleon boggled. “Did you just thank me?”

“You helped save Gaby. She’s in the panic room.”

“Where she’s decidedly not panicked.”

“More like furious.”

They smiled at each other.

And it felt—

It felt amazing. Intimate.

Even though there were dead people around them, and a faint hubbub of yet more screaming from the academy’s grounds. The alarm finally went off like it was supposed to, which meant the surviving guards had regained control of the, uh, control room.

“I am severely screwed up,” Napoleon reflected, because since when was bonding after a brutal rampage of masked mercenaries _intimate_? Should Napoleon just take Illya out on a date to a graveyard? Or an abattoir? He might even get some nookie, that way.

“Screwed up you may be, but today, you were competent.”

“Whoa. Competent. Coming from you, that’s practically a marriage proposal.”

“It is not.”

“Gotcha. So was this, like, an assassination thing? Or a kidnapping thing? No, wait, our nerve-pinched buddy here will tell us. I bet that cool bracelet of Gaby’s got hacked. Maybe by that nasty race-car fetishist she’s been doing the do with. That’s how they must’ve located her.”

“A viable analysis. I will not leave her alone with him.” Illya, to Napoleon’s surprise, looked rattled.

“Illya,” Napoleon said softly. “Gaby’s fine. They’ll let her out of the panic room when they’ve secured the perimeter. You’ll see her in a couple minutes.”

“Yes,” Illya said, and then stunned Napoleon by blurting: “I love her.”

It was like a hammer to the cranium. A wrecking-ball crashing into the chandelier of Napoleon’s happiness. The adrenaline that had prevented Napoleon from feeling his cuts and sprains swiftly plummeted, as if it had hurtled off a cliff, taking Napoleon’s tentative elation with it.

Instantly, the intimacy of before was gone. Or rather, it had been turned against Napoleon, because Illya’s trusting confession, his vulnerability, was just plain unfair when it had to do with Illya’s infatuation with Gaby. It was like a betrayal. Like Illya had gotten close to him only to stab him in the gut.

But Napoleon couldn’t let that show, because then, Illya might feel guilty, and the stuck-up dork scarcely ever expressed his feelings, to _anyone_ , and that couldn’t be healthy.

“Oh?” Napoleon plastered on a sickly simper of camaraderie. “Romantic love?”

Illya’s fingers shook as he cradled Gaby’s discarded hairband. He held it like it was something precious. “I do not know. At first, I thought I loved her like a younger sister. Then, I thought I was in love with her. Then, I realized I just loved her. How, I cannot fathom. I have no name for what I feel. I only know that I feel it.”

Napoleon tried not to be jealous. He really did. But he was only human, after all, and he was tired, and he was injured, and he’d just about had it with dramatic Russians and their unrequited loves. Like he’d had it with his own unrequited love for said dramatic Russians.

“Awesome,” he muttered. “Glad I could be of assistance. Wouldn’t want to let someone rob you of what matters to you the most.” Napoleon’s smile twisted. “Anyway. I gotta go. Get these dumb li’l scrapes stitched up, before my folks see ’em in all their bloody glory and freak out.”

Illya half-rose. “I could escort you to the infirmary—”

“Nah.” Napoleon waved his hand, not meeting Illya’s eyes. “You go to the panic room. Where Gaby is. I’ll just... The infirmary’s right there. Every building has a clinic, including Humanities, so…”

Napoleon trudged off in the direction of the exit, which happily coincided with the direction the infirmary was in. He didn’t check in with Dr. Leidbetter. Instead, he went right past the infirmary and out Humanities’ bullet-pitted doors, through the throng of panicked students and teachers milling to and fro, and got into his car.

On another day, he wouldn’t forgive himself for bleeding all over the cream leather seats of his darling Bugatti.

Today, though, it didn’t seem to matter. Not much did. There was a ball of lead sitting at the bottom of his throat, rust-bitter and stifling. He couldn’t breathe past it. He wanted to cry.

But Napoleon Solo never cried. He _owned_.

So he turned the key in the ignition, flashed his ID card at the beefed-up security at the gate, and zoomed outta there like a bat outta hell.

He drove around the city for a few hours before going home. Predictably, neither of his parents were around to “freak out” about his injuries, but the butler was vaguely solicitous, and Napoleon dismissed him before hauling out the dented first-aid box beneath his bed and bandaging himself, like he’d done since the age of ten.

The mansion was very quiet. Not the sort of quiet that Illya exuded, full of tormented passion and fierce, mother-bear protectiveness, but an empty, soulless quiet, polished and pristine.

Like a tomb.

 

* * *

 

It was convenient that Ralton was closed for an “internal review of safety protocols” over the ensuing week, because otherwise, Napoleon might’ve had to skip school like the delinquent he... absolutely was. It wasn’t like making a good impression on Illya was a priority of his, anymore, but sheer habit had made a good student out of him.

Yeah. Habit. Not a stupid, pointless crush on a man who would never return it.

God, Napoleon was pathetic. Fucked up and pathetic. Maybe that shrink his dad had imposed on him in fifth grade had been right, and Napoleon’s kleptomania was the direct result of never getting the attention of the people whose love he coveted, so he filled his life with stolen objects, instead.

Technically, he hadn’t stolen that dildo he replaced Illya’s cock with, at night. Sure, he’d stolen the credit card he’d ordered that dildo _with_ , but it was a perfectly valid online purchase.

The other thing that’d changed while Ralton had been under closure was that Napoleon’s parents had, in a rare display of concern, accorded Napoleon a bodyguard of his own.

Now, normally Napoleon would balk at that—balk more desperately than a horse would at a cyanide-laced carrot—but he was trapped in a fit of heartbroken ennui, and anyhow, he knew this bodyguard. He _liked_ this bodyguard.

Alex—or Alexander Waverly—was the deceptively stodgy-seeming British gent who had all but raised Napoleon from the ages of five to nine, while Napoleon’s dad had been a diplomat posted in Istanbul, and the family was assessed as high-risk enough to be provided a team of guards by the local embassy.

Alex had proven to be sly and funny and terrifically entertaining, and it had been he who had taught Napoleon how to pick his first lock. And hotwire his first car. And hack his first computer.

So, yeah. This wasn’t so bad.

“Al, my man,” Napoleon said, leaping forward to hug Alex, struck by the nostalgia of Alex’s Burberry perfume, unchanged after all these years. “The hell’re you still doing as a private bodyguard? I reckoned you’d be heading the MI6, by now.”

“Yes, well, not all of us are suited to being professional spies,” Alex demurred, despite the fact that he clearly was. “I’m happy to see you again, young master.”

“Ditch the formalities, will ya? I’m Napoleon to my friends.”

Alex’s warm, clever eyes crinkled. “Napoleon it is.”

 

* * *

 

The first day back at Ralton was dreary as hell. Members of the public had left bouquets, wreaths and candles at the gate, commemorating the nine lives lost in the massacre. The principal’s speech at the morning assembly was a rambling hour’s worth of grandiloquent eulogies. The students skulked about, getting spooked by loud noises, with some taking up the academy’s offer of grief counseling, while others overdid it with stress-relieving hobbies like sex and gossip and drugs.

Gaby was in the latter category. She had grudgingly  forgiven Napoleon and Illya for not letting her fight, and had shifted her focus to her favorite hobby—boys with cars. Or, to be more precise, cars with boys. The cars were the main point.

“Meanwhile,” Gaby said, during lunch, “Illya here decided to hover over us for the rest of our date. Ruined the mood. And there’s the four extra guards Dad’s foisted on me.” She gestured at the grim, hulking men partly concealed by the doric pillars. “Howie’s going to break up with me, at this rate. It’ll be my last visit to his garage.”

“That sucks,” Napoleon said distantly. He hadn’t looked at Illya once throughout the conversation, and he didn’t particularly want to, given that Illya had completely rejected him, and was still territorially obsessed with Gaby.

Napoleon wasn’t mad at Gaby, though; it wasn’t like she could help being irresistible. Heck, if Napoleon had been into petite mechanophiliacs with gorgeous brown eyes, he’d have gone for her, too. “Listen, I’ve got karate lessons with Alex, after school.” That was a lie. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

Gaby peered at him suspiciously. “Are you okay? You’re weirdly pale. You oughta lay off the martial arts until your wounds heal.”

“Eh, wounds,” Napoleon said, still not looking at Illya. “What else have they gotta do but heal? Don’t worry, Alex is real gentle with me.” _Unlike some assholes_ , he didn’t say, and got up to leave. “Bye.”

A broad hand fell on his shoulder—or nearly fell on his shoulder, except that it was intercepted by Alex, who had materialized in front of Napoleon like a genie. Perhaps it was Alex’s additional decade of experience as a bodyguard, but he was a helluva lot of more subtle than Illya could ever be. Then again, Alex was a short, unassuming dude with a funny accent, while Illya was a giant blonde bloodhound. Also with a funny accent.

“Might I ask why the man responsible for my master’s injuries seeks to touch him?” Alex inquired, mildly.

Whoa. Napoleon had never seen Alex get angry before. If this was angry. And not just, like, the British version of constipated. Eloquently constipated.

“You are the one being irresponsible, training him before he has healed.”

Why the fuck did Illya sound constipated, too?

“I assure you that I put Napoleon’s well-being above everything, just as you do your ward’s. Training my master to defend himself, rather than selfishly encouraging a dependence solely on myself, is how I plan to protect him in the long-term. Even when I am assigned elsewhere. Now,” Alex said, with a silky menace, “kindly step back before I make you.”

Crap. Napoleon couldn’t decide whether to face-palm in humiliation, interrupt the ensuing staring contest between Alex and Illya, or mirror Gaby’s expression of confused horror right back at her.

He settled for grabbing Alex by the sleeve of his tailored Armani suit—at least Napoleon’s bodyguard dressed classier than Gaby’s—and lugged Alex out of the lunch hall.

“What was that?” Napoleon hissed, when they were in the parking lot and out of earshot of anybody else. “What was with that father-of-the-bride routine?”

“Why, Napoleon,” Alex said, innocently. “I was simply doing my job by rescuing you from a situation that was causing you pain.”

Napoleon sagged. “Is my crush on him that obvious?”

“Not to those who are not keen observers of human nature,” Alex assured him, herding him into the car. “Although I must say, teaching you karate is a smashing idea.”

“Smashing, huh? Maybe I can smash his heart into itty-bitty pieces, like he did mine.” Napoleon snorted. “Not.”

“Hope springs eternal for a reason,” Alex said, cryptically, and conceded when Napoleon insisted on driving. “But if I am overprotective, do not forget that you are the closest thing to a son that I will ever have.”

 

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

Picnics were a tradition at Ralton, whenever the weather was cooperative and the academy’s more milquetoast students decided to indulge in a bit of “quaint” country living. Napoleon disdained picnics on principle, but Gaby demanded that they eat outdoors, because she claimed that Napoleon was beginning to resemble a vampire.

“You look like you’ve been up all night grieving for a lover who died eight thousand years ago,” Gaby said. “It’s ridiculous. You’ve got dark circles under your eyes.”

“I’m just… studying,” Napoleon said.

“Studying,” Gaby said, flatly. “You’re an A student already.”

“I intend to get into Harvard on my own merit. Not my parents’ donations.”

Gaby, knowing Napoleon’s resentment of his parents, ceded the argument. “Well, you’re still going outside and basking in these halcyon days—”

“Did you just quote Whitman?”

“Shakespeare, you arrogant American,” Gaby sniped. “You’re going to sit in the sun and store up on some vitamin D. Or your bones will crumble before you’re thirty.”

“Your concern for the longevity of my skeletal structure moves me.”

“Yeah? Move your behind to the lawn, then.” She pushed him between the shoulder-blades, propelling him from the hallway out onto the grassy courtyard, peppered as it was by picnicking students. “Snag us a spot near the fountain.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be back with chocolate from the vending machine. Being subjected to your depressing mug everyday is making me crave a lawful source of dopamine.”

“Chocolate promotes the production of dopamine,” Napoleon corrected. “It doesn’t itself contain dopamine.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Gaby said, and stormed off.

“You do have a way with the ladies,” Alex commented in his most ironic tone.

“Oh, fuck _you_ ,” Napoleon repeated, plodding unwillingly to the fountain. He blinked when Illya accompanied him. While it was true that Gaby now had those four supplementary bodyguards who were tailing her to the vending machine, Illya usually oversaw them personally.

But Napoleon didn’t quiz Illya about why he was temporarily relinquishing Gaby. Evading any and all interaction with Illya was Napoleon’s primary coping mechanism, nowadays. He plonked himself down on the driest patch of grass—he’d hate to dampen his trousers—and unzipped his custom-made Gucci man-bag. It contained a lunchbox packed with gourmet sandwiches, courtesy of the Solo chef, and an atlas, courtesy of the school library.

Alex stationed himself under a neighboring tree, almost invisible within its dappled shade, while Illya inexplicably lingered near Napoleon. Napoleon continued to act like Illya wasn’t there.

“You didn’t ask about the interrogation of our prisoner,” Illya said, abruptly.

Napoleon shrugged, one-shouldered. His nose was buried in his atlas of Canada. He was secretly plotting to spend the winter holidays in the Canadian wilderness, ice-fishing and gazing forlornly into the distance, until the chill quenched this stubborn, childish flame in his heart. Maybe he could convince his parents that it’d teach him survival skills. Not that they gave a damn. “Figured you had it sorted,” he said. “Being of KGB stock. How many toes did you have to break?”

“Seven,” Illya said. “Are you avoiding me?”

“What?” Napoleon jerked his head up. “No! I’m interested in your torture protocol. Very interested. Er. So, do you rip off the toenails before or after you break the toes?”

Illya regarded him dubiously. “I’m grateful that you’ve given up your obscene flirting with me, but—”

“Obscene flirting?” Napoleon said, incredulously, before he could stop himself. “Is that all you thought it was?”

Illya frowned in confusion.

Oblivious _bastard_. “’Scuse me,” Napoleon said, scrambling upright and jamming the atlas into his bag. “It’s nice that you’re ‘grateful’ I’m not being disgustingly slutty in your general vicinity, but I have another karate lesson.”

“Napoleon,” Illya began, an unexpected note of apology in his voice, but Napoleon honestly couldn’t be bothered listening to his bullshit. His clueless, cruel bullshit.

“Tell Gaby I’ll email her about that DJ for her birthday party.”

It was beneath Napoleon’s dignity to run, but he walked quickly toward the gilded arches of the gate. He was so worked up that he didn’t even notice Alex ghosting behind him like a watchful shark.

“I could kill him for you,” Alex suggested, coolly, as they got into the car once again.

“Lemme come up with a suitably agonizing death,” Napoleon seethed, “and you can mess him up so bad that his spirit won’t get to heaven.”

“Isn’t he destined for hell?”

“That sonovabitch is a good man.” Napoleon floored the accelerator, and they tore out of the school. “Despite being a jackass. That’s why I hate him.”

“Yes,” Alex said, as coolly as before. “Your hatred is self-evident.”

“Your sarcasm is what’s self-evident,” Napoleon groused. “Wanna grab a burger? I didn’t get to have my lunch.”

“Your penchant for Sloppy Joes is as much of a threat to your life as any assassin,” Alex said. “At least have a salad on the side.”

“I bet Illya has salads. Without any dressing. I bet he drinks green protein shakes that look like colonies of goddamn algae. I bet he swallows raw eggs before lifting weights. Fucking health-freak.”

“Napoleon,” Alex said, patiently, “linking everything back to Illya isn’t conducive to getting over him.”

“I’ll get over him,” Napoleon pledged, to himself as much as to Alex. “I’ll get so over him, I’ll be on an alien planet.”

“Keep in mind that the Russians have an ambitious space program.”

“What the heck does that even mean?”

Alex surveyed the road ahead of them beatifically. “It means that nothing is truly out of reach.”

“So you’re saying I should get over Illya while simultaneously saying it’s impossible to get over Illya.” 

“It’s not impossible. But it is improbable.”

“Wow. Have you considered a career as a motivational speaker? Because your pep talks are incredible.” Napoleon swerved around an intersection. “Hafta say, I feel _so much_ better. Not full of despair, at all. Not about to wax lyrical about the void in soliloquies of existential angst. Nope.”

“I’m gratified.”

“Ah, the vast emptiness of the universe,” Napoleon whispered, theatrically hushed. “To contemplate the vacuum is to contemplate the nothingness of the soul…”

They ended up eating at a roadside diner, with Napoleon scarfing down a Sloppy Joe while Alex snuck the most evil-looking broccoli ever onto Napoleon’s plate.

 

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

 

The karate alibi became a reality, if only to make Napoleon’s story credible. Alex got genuinely obsessed with it, though, because he said Napoleon needed to able to trounce his enemies in person.

“Bring it,” Napoleon said, spreading his feet wide upon the mat and balling his fists—and maybe he shouldn’t have invited Alex to basically make mincemeat outta him, because that was exactly what Alex did.

In approximately 0.003 seconds, Napoleon was face-down on the practice mat, ears ringing, with Alex’s powerful arm around his neck in a chokehold that had Napoleon’s vision greying.

“Jesus fuck,” Napoleon wheezed, as Alex slowly let up. “Couldn’t take it easy on me, could you?”

“Your opponents won’t take it easy on you,” Alex said.

“Aw, seriously?” Napoleon arched his back in an impromptu ripple of movement and almost slithered out of a startled Alex’s grasp.

Alex immediately doubled down, wrenching Napoleon’s arms behind him and slamming him onto the mat once again. “My, my. You’re as slippery as a salmon swimming upstream.”

“And you’re the bear snatching me up in your slavering jaws?” Napoleon grinned, realizing what he’d just said. “A bear, haha. Does that make me a twink?”

“It most certainly does.”

Napoleon laughed, surprising himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed.

His laugh petered off when, from his low angle on the mat, he saw two pairs of shoes at the entrance to the dojo. A pair of heels and a pair of boots. Boots that had featured in many of Napoleon’s fantasies.

Napoleon wriggled out of Alex’s hold, and Alex let him go, since they had company. Gaby was gawping at them, round-eyed. Illya was staring, too, but his face was like a brick—set and stony and aggressively expressionless.

Napoleon became excruciatingly conscious of how his _gi_ had been all but yanked off of him, and how he was sweaty and bare-chested and panting.

“ _Mein Gott_ ,” Gaby declared, but her exclamation was directed at Alex, who was rising from the mat in a single, smooth motion, muscles bunching beneath his still-flawless karate outfit. “Okay. Okay, so. I see the point of the whole training thing. I could kick ass if I fought like that. I came to check on Napoleon, today, but… You don’t have any extra uniforms out back, do ya?”

“We do,” Alex said, amused, and led her beyond the sparring circle to the curtained changing area with its multiple sets of _gi_ in varying sizes. The Solo family’s dojo held pride of place among all the private dojos in America, although it had gone unused after Napoleon’s father had built it and lost interest in it. Much as he’d lost interest in his son, after siring him. Solo Senior never did have much of an attention span.

Then again, neither did Napoleon. Except when it came to Illya.

Illya, whose scrutiny had become even stonier. Napoleon blushed, crossing his arms defensively. What, was Napoleon too slender for Illya’s liking? Too unimpressive to even bother learning a martial art?

“You’re half-naked,” Illya said, shortly.

“Uh. Yeah? This session was a bit intense.”

“Intense,” Illya echoed. His voice was as dead as the Dead Sea Scrolls. He was inspecting Napoleon with an unnerving, razor-sharp concentration. “He bruised you.”

Napoleon brushed his fingertips against his throat, where he could still feel the phantom sensation of being choked by Alex. Illya followed the gesture with a strange, feral glitter in his eyes. Huh?

“I’ll… go put on some clothes,” Napoleon said, and started after Gaby, but in yet another flash of motion, Illya was upon him, hand wrapped tightly around Napoleon’s wrist.

Was Ambushing 101 part of the standard bodyguard curriculum?

“Hey,” Napoleon said, but he stuttered to a halt when Illya’s hand slid upward, along his arm, pausing at the bruises that must be mottling Napoleon’s skin. “Wh-what—what are you doing?”

“These could not be caused by a spar,” Illya said, still in that terrifying, dead monotone. His thumb skated along a nipple, and just like that, Napoleon was back to panting, even though he’d just caught his breath. A scalding heat shot through his veins, like liquid fire, and his sweat suddenly felt a lot _wetter_ than before. A lot wetter, and a lot filthier. Fuck.

“Nah,” Napoleon said, breathlessly. “They were caused by an ordinary tussle.”

“A tussle.”

“Yep.”

“You… tussle… with Waverly?”

“Why does that sound like the fondue question?”

“The what?”

“Fuckin’ A, you haven’t seen _Captain America_? What has Gaby been doing with you? Wait, no, don’t answer that.” Napoleon knew they weren’t sleeping together, because Gaby was as attracted to Illya as a vegan was to a side of ham, but the mental image of them being all cozy in Gaby’s study with Illya watching over her affectionately was enough to put Napoleon off his porn. And he liked his porn.

Porn that often had big, bad men cornering innocent boys, just like Illya was cornering Napoleon, right now.

But a) Illya wasn’t bad, and b) Napoleon wasn’t innocent.

Nonetheless, it was downright inhumane, giving Napoleon a taste of what he would never have.

“Anyway,” Napoleon blathered on, because he had to distract himself from Illya’s thumb making its way down his breastbone, inch by perspiration-sticky inch, as if counting the bruises. “Anyway, I… Yeah, we tussle, because we… We… For Pete’s sake, Peril, would you stop touching me?”

“Yes, stop touching him,” said Alex, from behind them, and Napoleon jumped about a foot in the air.

Illya… didn’t withdraw his hand. It stayed where it was—or rather, where it had ended up, on Napoleon’s hip. It was somehow heavier, in Alex’s presence, like an anchor. Or the paw of a very, very huge lion. Napoleon got the distinct impression that there were claws, in there. Claws that could slice and rend.

Alex stepped forward until his chest was against Napoleon’s back, and gently removed Illya’s hand, himself. At least, it appeared gentle, but given that Illya’s forearm was corded with effort, it must’ve been quite a battle.

Illya and Alex inexplicably arm-wrestling with Napoleon between them was bizarre enough, but Gaby standing by in a loose-fitting _gi_ , rubbing her temples and looking up at the ceiling as if asking for god’s help, was bizarre in and of itself. Gaby would as soon ask for help as leave a Lamborghini unmolested.

“Well,” she said, “it seems like nobody’s in the mood for sparring and everyone’s making fools of themselves. Not my scene. Illya, I’m getting back into my dress and going home. If you want to hang around and be idiotic, go ahead. I’ll hitch a ride with the other guards. They’re in the car outside, aren’t they?”

“No,” Illya said, glaring at Alex. “No, I’ll. I’m coming.”

“Fat chance,” Gaby grumbled. “You? Coming? With anyone? You’d have to pull your head out of your anus, first.”

Napoleon snickered. “It’s… it’s not ‘anus,’ Gaby. It’s—”

He cut himself off when Illya glared at him, as well.

“What just happened, here?” a befuddled Napoleon asked Alex, after Gaby and her pet thundercloud had departed. Because Illya had been the human equivalent of a thundercloud, ill-tempered and broody and ominous.

“Stage two of my plan,” Alex said, serenely.

“Stage two of what plan?”

“Never you mind,” Alex said, shooing Napoleon to the changing area. “Go and shower. You’ve got your Chemistry test tomorrow; I’ll tutor you in it, afterward.”

“How do you even know Chemistry?”

“Bomb-making requires knowledge of Chemistry, Physics, Mathematics, Biology and Ethics.”

Bomb-making, not bomb-defusing? “Ethics. Riiiiiight.”

“The most important subject of all.”

“No doubt,” said Napoleon, wryly. “Are you sure you aren’t a member of the MI6?”

“I have no notion of what you speak,” Alex said, and went in for a shower of his own.

Napoleon snuck into the cubicle farthest from Alex’s, and did his utmost to muffle his whimpers as he masturbated to the memory of Illya thumbing his nipple. A nipple that was, unbelievably, still tingly and stiff.

No. Hell, no. Napoleon was supposed to be giving up on the guy. He _had_ given up on the guy.

Hadn’t he?

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A _[gi](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karate_gi)_ is a karate uniform. (Although it can also apply to judo.)
> 
> ~~And if you don’t want to marry Alex by this point, I have failed you.~~

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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